


Happy New Year, flea

by astroenergy



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Gen, Hatred, New Year's Eve, Perhaps the beginning of a friendship - or not, Phone Calls & Telephones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-05 05:15:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3107516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astroenergy/pseuds/astroenergy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shizuo and Izaya welcome the New Year exchanging wishes over the phone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone and Happy New Year to you all!
> 
> I haven't written anything in a while, but I had this New Year's Eve idea and really wanted to write it down and share it with whoever is interested. It might have evolved into semi-incoherent blabbering after some point, but I am still happy I got round to writing it! There will be a second chapter with Izaya's side of the story, possibly tomorrow or the day after. Until then, I hope you enjoy this first chapter.
> 
> I forgot to add the disclaimer: as you all know, I do not own the characters or story.

The New Year finds him in his couch, watching the fireworks on the TV, a cigarette between his lips, filling his lungs with bitter smoke. It’s not how most people celebrate the coming of a new year, he knows, and yet the information is nothing more than that; a vague notion in the back of his mind which never fully forms into a complaint, or a regret or – even worse – a sort of grief. He is fine with the way his life has unfolded, the way it _unfolds_ still, unaltered, unchanged by the coming of yet another year – his mind says so, his smoke-filled lungs say so, the empty feeling that sometimes settles in his stomach begs to differ but he silences it with a nice piece of chocolate cake with vanilla icing on the last afternoon of the year with his kohai, who has as much of a sweet tooth as he does, and his senpai who is kind enough to take the both of them out for a little New Year’s Eve celebration. After meeting his little brother that very same morning for a coffee (hot chocolate for him, coffee is too damned bitter, even loaded with sugar and turned white with milk, and besides it reminds him of the four-eyed doctor and his annoyingly to-the-point observation of how Shizuo hates everything bitter and yet can’t go a minute without a cigarette in his mouth, which is just as bitter as it gets really, while Izaya loves everything bitter but can’t stand the smell of cigarettes, which, going by his tastes, should be his favorite aroma), he can’t ask for more even if he’s spending the actual New Year’s Eve on his own. He wouldn’t know what to ask for, anyway. Celty and Shinra have invited him over for dinner on the first day of the New Year – Celty is cooking, which makes the invitation more of a threat than anything, but it’s still heartwarming that they wish to spend the first evening of the year with him. Shinra annoys him - he even had the nerve to suggest that they invite the shitty flea as well and it was just as well that the damned doctor made the suggestion over the phone for he’d hate to start the new year by murdering his best friend’s boyfriend – but Celty will be there and she _is_ his best friend after all. No, all in all he’d call this a nice holiday. A nice celebration of the New Year. Maybe even a good day, had it not been for that unbearable stench suffocating him all day, his irritation culminating in a glimpse of white fur and the grating ring of a too familiar _“Shizu-chan”_ earlier that evening. He should have expected it, the adrenaline running through his veins and the sick feeling which made his skin crawl ever since he left his apartment that morning should have been warning enough, and yet he had dared hope that he would be allowed to bid the year farewell without having to face that bloody parasite. How foolish of him. In a city which would be glad to go to sleep one evening and wake up having forgotten all about him, having forgotten of ever living in the fear of a monster roaming the streets, there is one man who would lift every rock and shed light to every dark corner in order to drag him out screaming and kicking like the beast he is. Peace was never an option – not since Orihara Izaya stepped into his life.

He shakes his head and stubs his cigarette out only to light a new one straight away. He does not wish to think about the flea, not as the countdown begins. They say that what you do on New Year’s Eve, you will do all year, and he has no intention of thinking of that shitty two-faced – no, scratch that, _a dozen_ -faced – abomination of nature all year. Izaya Orihara is scum. He stresses the word in his mind - _scum_ – and rolls it over and over until the sound of it echoing in his head makes him smirk to no one in particular. The image of too familiar features caught in the light of fireworks threatens to resurface, but he pushes it back with little care. He knows the flea. The insect isn’t going to change now, no matter what he saw – what he _thinks_ he saw – a few hours earlier.

_…eight, seven, six…_

He feels no grief watching the countdown on TV; it’s been a lonely year, just like any other, and it leaves him as lonely as it found him. There’s nothing wrong with that. People make their choices and sometimes life makes the choices for them. Either way, he is who he is and that is not likely to change, no matter how many lonely New Year’s Eves go by. What’s the point in getting depressed about something he has no power over? He stretches his left arm over the back of the couch, letting it rest on the faded cloth, and the sensation under his fingers sends the signals like electricity burning him all the way from his fingertips to his mouth where the bitter taste of smoke suddenly turns into thick blood, the coppery taste that for unknown reasons has been so tightly associated to blood-red irises piercing him with smug defiance. He has touched the cloth of that ugly parka a few times in the past – not _touched_ really, but more like grabbed, pulled, snatched, seized, whipped, fisted…he can’t come up with the right word to express the abhorrence that sensation at his fingertips causes him every time and the way the feeling is expressed in the violence of his grip, not when his mind is seized by the memory of an expression so unguarded it knocks the air out of his lungs with its simple honesty, even hours after he witnessed it. He knows where this thought leads and he huffs, annoyed at himself, chews on his cigarette butt and takes a long drag of smoke, hoping to choke the image forming in his mind. The flea is not human. The flea is not normal. The flea is not someone he should consider as another human being, someone he can actually understand. The flea is an insect. End of story. And yet as the first fireworks turn the Tokyo sky colorful in his TV screen, all he sees is blood-red eyes wide with momentary terror and surprise and something else that Shizuo forbids himself to interpret as gratitude, but whatever it is, it’s there, it’s real, as real as the momentary slip of the insect’s nonchalant mask of superiority, and in that instant of unguarded emotion, whatever the emotion might be, Shizuo sees a common human, as loud and clear as the music and New Year’s wishes coming from the TV. It’s not like a single moment can change everything he knows – or _thinks_ he knows, he is decent enough to admit that he doesn’t truly know anything about the man – and feels about his archenemy, but it is enough for him to question his conviction that he _can_ and _wants_ to kill the information broker, to rid the city of his presence, to clean the filth of his existence from this world.

That’s as far as that thought goes, though, for his cellphone rings and he runs a hand between the cushions cursing under his breath at the fact that the damned thing always seems to slip in the creases or disappear down cracks and corners and it only irritates him further when it offers nothing but an unknown number on its tiny screen. Someone is calling to wish him a happy new year, but as happy as it seemed a few minutes ago, right now all he sees is red and Izaya’s eyes flashing in the back of his mind don’t help much. Whoever it is, they should know better than to call a monster to exchange common courtesies, so Shizuo feels no remorse for barking a _‘hello’_ that would have any sane person hanging up without a word. Surprisingly, the line doesn’t go dead. He can hear a lot of background noise; music and a lot of commotion and perhaps the loud crack of fireworks – or is that from the TV? – but the caller remains silent long enough for Shizuo to wonder if perhaps someone’s phone dialed his number by mistake, squeezed in a pocket and unthinkingly left unlocked. But then there’s the soft sound of someone drawing a breath and for some reason it sends Shizuo’s heart thrumming. He knows who it is before he hears that voice, he knows by the coppery taste in his mouth and the tension building up in his spine, he knows by the way his cigarette ends up snapped in two in his hand and he can’t even say how it happened. But the rage drowns in that bottomless pit in his stomach that sometimes makes him feel cold and small and pitiful, that hole that occasionally reminds him of what grief feels like, and he catches himself wondering whether the flea possesses such a pit himself, a black hole that devours everything and spits out bile and anger – anger that translates into something other than rage and broken bones in his case, perhaps smugness, or hatred, or bitterness, who knows. Not him, for sure. Maybe he’s wrong, maybe they have nothing in common the two of them, after all if someone had suggested that they did a few hours ago Shizuo would have punched the thought out of them without hesitation. But there’s that look of sincere whatever-it-was stuck in his mind and he can’t help but wonder whether Izaya has no one to wish a Happy New Year to, just like Shizuo doesn’t, and the thought is enough to make him wonder whether it would be that bad to make truce for an evening, to act civil. He leans forward to drop his ruined cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table in front of him and exhales loudly, breathing the air out like it’s a sum of all the venom that has stocked up in his lungs during this last year thanks to and for the shitty flea. Tomorrow is another day, another year; surely the louse will provide him enough of it to build a new stock, day by day.

He brings a hand up and rubs his forehead absentmindedly, like this takes a lot more effort than it should, but the noise at the other end of the call goes on despite his stalling and he knows for certain that Izaya is as alone as he is, that Shizuo is the first person to breathe these words to him, and, enemies or not – even though there is no _‘or not’_ here, they _are_ enemies, and come morning they will be back at each other’s throat again – he kind of means them as he speaks them:

“Happy New Year, flea”.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is the second chapter. I didn't mean for it to be depressing, but it kind of is - I like depressing things, I can't lie. Izaya says a lot of things that are downright bleak and depressing, but you shouldn't forget that, regardless what he says, he lies to himself all the time!

The day starts just like any other; Izaya is already sipping his second cup of steaming black coffee by the time Namie arrives and they exchange a few good-morning insults before he’s out the door. The weather is cold and humid, but it’s warm enough inside his fur-trimmed coat, with the hood pulled over his head. A few odd jobs is all he has – it would seem that people choose to play by the rules around this time of year. The thought makes him smirk wickedly at the morning traffic as he skips cheerfully down the street heading to the train station. It’s been years since he moved out of Ikebukuro and yet somehow he can’t seem to find a better place to spend his time in. Izaya is not the sentimental sort; if anything, he mocks his beloved humans for their sentimentality. He couldn’t claim to have friends in the area either, although of course there is always Shinra, as much of a friend as he is ever likely to have. But Shinra is not the reason he keeps going back to the area. He could pretend that it was all for business, after all Shiki has his basis there and the Awakusu-kai are one of his most important clients – he pats his right pocket to make sure the present for the yakuza executive is indeed there, wrapped tastefully by his secretary’s _loving_ hands. But, no matter what people say, he is not the sort to lie to himself either. Shiki is not the force drawing him back to Ikebukuro. No, it’s a much fiercer and more vengeful force; his own failure.

Izaya Orihara would never admit to failure. But there is no one else in his mind but his own thoughts and he has made a game of never lying to them. The truth makes you stronger. Let his beloved humans hide behind their intricate lies, trying to convince even themselves that they are what they are _clearly_ not – Izaya knows better. He knows that the truth is priceless. For a man that puts a price on every piece of information and makes a living out of it this is a rather scandalous statement, but he has the truth of it. _Put a price on every truth there is about you and make sure it’s high enough for any bidder to be disheartened. Careful though; should you ever forget that truth, you’ll find yourself bereft of any power and leverage._ He knows who he is. He’s toyed with enough people through the years to know that lying to himself is the surest way to his downfall. If he could care to share his craft with anyone – which he doesn’t – he would have a wide range of tricks and fine art to show off, techniques with which to crash any human being out there. The queen of them all, however, is one: the truth. Take a man’s truth and twist it until it’s turned against him, and you can crash his spirit forever. That much he knows. The truth is ugly – _his truth is ugly_ – but that’s the point now, isn’t it? _Take all that’s ugly inside you and lay it out bare into the light and look at it hard and long until there’s nothing left to see. When you look up from all that mess, there will be nothing left to hurt you._ You will have already hurt yourself beyond repair and what is broken beyond repair can only break in so many ways – he leaves that piece of information out, even in the depths of his mind, for pity is unwelcome even there.

By the time he shows up at Shiki’s headquarters he has already finished with all the small jobs, the sun is high up in the sky and people are swarming in the streets. _Dota-chin and his gang should be meeting for lunch at Russia sushi soon, Shinra is out shopping with Celty, the teenage trio is enjoying the early celebrations, and Shizu-chan will be meeting his colleagues for cake and hot chocolate not much later._ He makes a goal of knowing what everyone in this city does, especially his one-sided friends, even if these plans never include him. Someone else might have interpreted this as a masochistic obsession, but for Izaya it’s simply routine; it is his job after all. Shiki welcomes him with a curt nod and a puff of smoke in an already smoke-filled room, but Izaya’s thoughtful present brings a shadow of a smile on his lips. Not that Izaya cares for gratitude, but he did invest time and money on choosing something that would convey the feelings of respect and consideration, and even though he has no illusions that Shiki cares for any of that either, he is satisfied to see that he at least made the right choice. His satisfaction is crystal clear in the self-assured grin that settles on his face as he watches the man pocket his new cigarette case – not all that new really, but a vintage leather case, a collector’s piece that cost a small fortune – and stays there all the way through their meeting and even until he arrives at Russia sushi and spots Kadota’s gang sitting in the back. He takes a seat at the end of the table, even though no one invites him to, and exchanges a few words with them before the three males have to drag Karisawa away from him before he thinks to take offense at the absurdities that spew out of her mouth. _So it’s lunch alone again today,_ as Simon is so kind as to point out and Izaya chuckles like there’s a joke somewhere there, one that he is the only one aware of.

The afternoon is spent people-watching; there are festivals all over the city, bands playing in the streets, lights and shows, parents with their children and young couples holding hands. Izaya is but a shadow amongst them, slipping in the cracks of this tapestry of people, be it groups of friends or families. It’s easier when you are alone. He has no baggage to carry on his shoulders, no one to care about, no one’s needs and desires to take into consideration. Yet another truth that his humans prefer to ignore; a single unit is much stronger than a group. So he stands about and watches them as they go about their lives, small and vulnerable in these clusters of love and caring and betrayal at will. When he comes upon a few faces he remembers from games long ended – and won, have no doubt – he smirks and turns to disappear in the dark alleys, but is met with the hard elbow of a man grinning like a maniac and ends up face down on cold cement. Oh well, he can’t really think of a better way to bid the year farewell. There’s only four of them and despite the numbness spreading over the left side of his face – his eye is swollen and half-closed, but that’s pretty much it – he is confident that he can escape them any time he wants. There’s a storm of accusations followed by threats, and Izaya would be lying if he claimed to know how many of these accusations are true. Once he is done with his lovely humans they are indifferent to him; nothing but broken toys, to be thrown out and replaced by others, new and shiny and ready to be broken into pieces like their predecessors. He chooses to humor them, just because it is fun listening to all the lame excuses these thugs come up with to justify the knives in their hands, but when they grow weary of his smirks and decide to attack him, blades bare and extended, sharper than their words but just as lame in Izaya’s eyes, he makes sure to give them a show worthy of their time on such a special day. He doesn’t bother draw his own switchblade, a punch and a kick is all it takes to send lowlife like the likes of them sprawling on the ground, but he doesn’t stop there, because a few bruises are hardly satisfying. He lets one of them stand long enough to come at him with bare steel and grabs for it. The cold has numbed his fingers and was it not for the look on his attacker’s face Izaya would have to look down to confirm that his blood is indeed trickling on the ground, deep red and warm even if it fails to warm him. He’s holding on to the flat side of the blade as hard as he can and his laughter spills out of him erratic, perhaps more fearful than the blood itself judging by the look the four thugs give him before they run away, screaking that he is _fucking insane_ , an accusation that only makes him grin as he taunts their retreating backs _“Don’t you want your knife back? Or is it for me? Such a wonderful present! Oh, but you shouldn’t have, I didn’t get you anything after all”._ He hums cheerfully to himself all the way to Shinra’s making sure his blood drips on the ground rather than on his expensive tailored coat. Humans are weak and they interpret strength as insanity, that’s all.

All it takes is one look at him and Shinra flashes that patronizing smile of his.

“You forgot which side to hold your knife on?!” Celty is out – he’s not the only one working on New Year’s Eve – so they sit at the kitchen table and Shinra rambles on about the dinner she’ll be cooking tomorrow evening. “Shizuo is joining us as well. I suggested we invite you too, but he’d rather eat broken glass”, hands raised placatingly, “his words, not mine”, and that all-knowing grin that makes Izaya want to show him which side he holds his knife on.

“Why would I want to suffer the protozoan’s company while being poisoned by your beloved monster’s cooking?” Shinra chuckles like he can see through all the insults, and Izaya has the sickening feeling that indeed he can. “Are you done already? I still have work to do.”

The doctor makes a point of finishing the stiches and bandaging the wound as slowly as he can. “Business as usual, huh? It wouldn’t kill you to celebrate the New Year like a normal person for once; taking your sisters to the count-down or meeting a friend”. Izaya knows that cheeky smile and braces himself for whatever follows; he speaks his truth to himself, but would rather not have it shot at him as cheap ammunition. “I happen to know of at least one more person who will be on his own tonight. And he happens to like your sisters!” Shinra did ask to know which side Izaya holds his knife on, so it’s only fair that his friend shows him. Much to Izaya’s dismay, the amusement never fades from the doctor’s grey eyes. “Careful not to pull your stitches, or I will have to charge you to redo them!”

The chilling cold is welcome after Shinra’s quips but fate is cruel as always. He’s forgotten how to hold his tongue – assuming that he ever knew – so it’s no surprise that he finds himself sprinting through Ikebukuro, the blond monster of the city at his tail, fuming and cursing and hurling trashcans and street signs like they were paper toys. They reach the Sunshine 60 roof like that, Izaya laughing maniacally and Shizuo cursing him in any way he can think of, but when the raven teeters to the edge and jumps gracefully on the railing, the blond stays back lighting a cigarette. _You’ve never cared much for heights, have you, Shizu-chan?_

“Couldn’t you stay the fuck away from me for once?”

“Aaah, but I was nowhere near you, Shizu-chan! Ikebukuro is a big city, even a dumb monster like you should know that!”

“You have a death wish, flea?” The growls and the scowls suit him best, Izaya knows and never fails to tease one out of him. “All I wanted was to end the year in peace, without having to see your ugly face.”

It’s not fake, the grin that spreads on his face. Shizu-chan never fails to twist the knife and it’s just as well, for Izaya wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Oh, what is this, Shizu-chan? Were you hoping to start the New Year without seeing me, imagining that perhaps that would mean you wouldn’t have to see me all year round? I always knew you were stupid, but superstitious is a whole new level of stupidity, even for you!” He’s not sure whether it’s the taunting grin on his face or the words he speaks that cause the chain reaction of a cigarette snapped in two, the blond’s brow twitching and the string of threats that are directed to him – he’s never known and he fears that Shizuo will never entertain his curiosity with an answer even if he bothers to ask – but it’s amusing all the same. As long as he’s hovering over the edge he’s safe from any actual attacks, he knows, so he can’t think of a reason to hold his tongue. “It’s such a desperate tradition, to think that a single night can influence a whole year! I shouldn’t expect anything better from humans, Shizu-chan, but you are a monster – shouldn’t you be above such tangible desperation?”

“Get the fuck down from there and I’ll show you how desperate I am, coward!”

This roar sounds like music in his ears! If he could tame the most fearful beasts of all, wouldn’t that make him human?

“Desperate, yes, but resilient as well, and that’s what makes humans so fascinating, Shizu-chan!” He spreads his arms out and twists his body to the side to embrace the whole of the city out there, as Shizuo watches unimpressed. “Look at them! The world could be ending and they’d still be decorating their houses, singing songs and baking cookies, hoping that perhaps if the new year finds them stuffed with false happiness it will somehow become real! Such palpable desperation is not to be scorned, Shizu-chan, but to be envied! But you wouldn’t know anything about happiness, would you?” He lets the bitterness seep in his voice as the corners of his lips twist in a scornful smirk, and he wouldn’t know any better himself, but that’s a detail best left unspoken. He watches his enemy ball his fists and spit his just lit cigarette to the ground where he crashes it under his boot, every muscle on that lean body preparing for the charge, and he steels himself for yet another chase; _come at me and I’ll jump over your empty head! I’ll be out the door and down the stairs before you even turn around to look for me!_ But as his mind focuses on his escape route a loud **_bang_** sends waves of shock down to his toes and he slips for just a split second. It’s all it takes where he’s standing, his mind finds the time to state the obvious, but he’s a master at this and won’t go down as easily – that’s what he’s thinking when he’s yanked forward by a strong grip on the front of his coat and he has half a mind to struggle free but his back crashes against the railing and there’s warmth pressing against his body, a smoke-stinking breath hitting his face rough as a slap and for a moment he forgets that he is holding up a mask.

“Watch your step, you fucking idiot!”

All it takes is one look at the brown eyes staring at him incredulously and he remembers to pull the strings again, to hide the truth that only he is allowed access to with a wicked smirk.

“Shizu-chan is such a gentleman to run to my rescue! And I thought you wanted me dead!”

The fireworks are still going off somewhere in the back, he can hear the cracking noise and he tells himself he’s an idiot to be taken by surprise by what should be the most expected routine of the day even before midnight, but it’s really the fingers gripping the front of his coat that have his heart racing. There is no obvious reason as to why the monster is lingering, Izaya is safe and sound now, with steady concrete under his feet, and it should never matter to his sworn enemy anyway, but the intensity of his gaze says those eyes saw more than they ever should have. It takes Shizuo a moment to reply and it’s almost like he’s waiting to see if the mask will slip again, probably just to confirm that it is indeed a mask. _Too bad, Shizu-chan. The show is over._

“You bet I do, flea. But there’s people who’d mourn for you – hell if I know why! – and I won’t let you ruin the whole year for them! Go die some other day, you worthless piece of shit!”

The railing digs into his back and thighs as he’s shoved against it, Shizuo taking a step back and turning to leave and Izaya chooses to push his luck even if he already knows the answer to his question.

“Is Shizu-chan saying he’d miss me?!”

A ‘ _tsk’_  and a mumbled ‘ _fucking scum’_ are all his company as the last fireworks explode in the horizon and the crowd starts cheering somewhere down the street. _Of course you wouldn’t. You were thinking of Shinra and the twins, but they wouldn’t miss me any more than you would, Shizu-chan._

He doesn’t bother return home after that, it’s already late in the evening when he climbs down from that roof and the streets are flooded with people. Namie will have returned home already, to prepare dinner for her brother and his odd girlfriend, and there is nobody else waiting for him. He finds himself leaning against a lamp post, surrounded by thousands of people in groups, not long before the countdown. He could have chosen to be somewhere else, he could have charmed someone into spending this evening with him – friend or lover, man or woman, it makes no difference, he can toy with them all – but it would hardly have felt any different than this, he knows.

He has the most loyal company there is; his past, his failure. He likes the city, the anonymity of the crowded city center, he can become invisible in it and there are several benefits in being invisible. He _has_ thought of leaving Tokyo in the past, of trying his luck somewhere else, in some place where he could start afresh, where he could be whoever he wished to be; he was young and naïve at some point, just like everyone. But he knows better now. _I don’t fit in,_ teenagers say to themselves and hide away, or _run_ away if they can work up the courage – such pitiful creatures. Izaya knows that those who don’t fit in, never will – and as if to prove him right, they never do. _It’s not a question of surroundings you see; people who don’t fit in are simply cut out wrong or made of the wrong material._ He could have moved someplace else, but nothing would have changed: his failure would have moved there with him. His failure to fit in, to be loved. It would have haunted him and weakened him through the years. He does not like weakness. So he chose to stay and let it harden him. It’s who he is now and no one can hurt him with it, for there’s only so much pain a truth can cause and he has drawn all the pain he could have out of it. It pulses through his veins and swells every time he catches a glimpse of golden in the streets.

_Damn you, Shinra._

When the countdown begins, he already has one of his phones in his hand and he’s gazing hard at the number that he’s typed in, flexing his injured fingers and wondering whether there’s any reason not to press the call button. He gives himself until _one_ to come up with a reason and presses ‘call’ just as the first **_bang_** of the new year kicks in - _you cannot hurt what’s already dead, Shizu-chan._

The beast’s barks have never left him without words before, but now Izaya hesitates for the first time ever. He half-hopes this call will be interpreted as a tease and draws a deep breath before he manages to speak, but when he hears the words come out of his mouth, his dread is palpable – to him, if not to the receiver of the call.

“Happy New Year, Shizu-chan.”

He almost doesn’t expect a reply, but this is the new year after all; a chance to start afresh.


End file.
